


A Man Like That

by Heathersparrows



Category: Eroica Yori Ai o Komete | From Eroica with Love
Genre: Dark subject, Gen, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-27
Updated: 2017-12-27
Packaged: 2019-02-22 13:23:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,524
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13167816
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Heathersparrows/pseuds/Heathersparrows
Summary: An invitation to Schloss Eberbach takes an unexpected turn for Dorian.





	A Man Like That

A Man Like That

A peaceful morning in the south of England. A slight spring rain fell on the manicured lawns of Gloria Estate; dripped from the branches of the mighty oak trees and the buds of the many rosebushes.

Dorian Red, the Earl of Gloria, was sitting at the breakfast table. He had finished eating and was now going through the mail Bonham had brought in.

The tailor’s bill for the season at Ascot. It was astronomical. James would have a fit, but it simply wouldn’t do to appear at Ascot in last year’s fashion. One had one’s standards, after all, and a reputation to live up to. James, of course, wouldn’t understand. He never did, but this couldn’t be helped. He would calm down again in the end. He always did.

An invitation to Lady Shuttlebrook’s annual spring party. Lady Shuttlebrook was of the “you-haven’t-met-a-suitable-young-lady-yet” brigade, and homosexuality, according to her, did not exist – maybe in some oriental places, but not in 20th century Britain. Nevertheless, her advanced age demanded respect, and he would not decline her invitation this year. Besides, it would be nice to meet Richard, her only son, again. Richard had been the first one to suffer from his mother’s ignorance in regard to homosexuality. Anyway, they had had a lot of fun together, adolescent Richard and Dorian … Last thing he heard, Richard lived with a much older man. But there was never any harm in renewing an old friendship.

A letter from his mother. Dorian breathed deeply. Lady Gloria’s letters were never pleasant, but some were worse. 

Nothing new today, though. The usual information about his sisters’ latest offspring and her own social activities. Oh well. Why couldn’t his mother just leave him alone? His sisters should have made up thrice for the disappointment he was to her. All three had married well-off, dull aristocrats; and all three had children already. Well, Victoria was expecting any day now. A girl again. Good luck to her. Dorian grinned. So far, he was uncle to three – admittedly very cute – nieces, and no heir for the title of the Earl of Gloria was in sight. Well, well, not really his problem … He simply refused to let himself be bothered by the message “When will you marry and provide an heir for the family?” in his mother’s letter, although it emanated from every line.

Dorian sighed. 

For all he cared, why not make one of his nieces Lady Gloria? It was so old-fashioned that only a male could bear the title. In general, he thought highly of women and found any idea about the “weaker sex” hopelessly outdated.

He folded up the letter and put it back into the envelope. So, nothing new, then..

A few more bills which he put on the tailor’s to give them to James – poor Jamesie. He would have more than one fit. The amounts due would be enough for a whole series of fits. But again, this couldn’t be helped.

Dorian’s heart did a small leap, his accountant’s worries instantly forgotten, when he took up the last unopened envelope and saw the precise, wide handwriting, the “1” and the “7” in the address written in the German manner – the one with a stroke going up, the downward stroke slashed on the paper, and the seven’s downward stroke energetically crossed through. A note from the Major? Over the mail? How strange.

He lifted the ordinary grey envelope to the light, looked at the stamps, and turned it over. The back of the envelope just showed the letters “KvdE” in the same bold, abrupt but precise handwriting. An ordinary envelope. No official stationery. Curiouser and curiouser.

Dorian gingerly felt the envelope to guess its contents. Something small and rectangular, harder than the paper of the envelope. A card, probably.

He smiled and decided to prolong the time of apprehension and speculation for a while. 

Seven years now. Seven years of bumping into each other accidentally all over the world, running after each other, thwarting each other’s plans, getting at each other’s throats and forming uneasy alliances with each other from time to time. Uneasy, that is, from the Major’s side. Klaus von dem Eberbach, the elusive NATO Secret Service Major with the deadly aim – 

//Right into my heart,// Dorian thought, //right into my heart. Who would ever have thought?//

Seven years, and he not only desperately wanted the elusive Major in his bed, but in his life, too, whereas the Major ardently seemed to wish for Dorian to get out of his life, let alone far away from his bed – steadfastly ignoring the fact that Dorian always got what he wanted. Always. Be it a painting or a sculpture that took his fancy - or a beautiful man.

And now the Major had written him a personal note. Dorian knew the letter had nothing to do with NATO enlisting the services of his alter ego Eroica, the master thief. The Major would have sent a message in a more official way, had this been the case, one of his agents contacting one of Eroica’s men. No – this was personal. Private even, because a formal invitation would have been sent on official stationery. But what did the Major want?

Well, he would not find out until he finally opened the letter. So Dorian took the letter opener – actually a silver plated dagger, a present from one of his admirers – and carefully slit up the envelope.

As expected, a small note card fell onto the damask tablecloth. Now, this was official: Under the image of the boar crossing a creek, just a few words in the Major’s handwriting:  
“Schloss Eberbach. Tuesday. Twenty-two hundred hours sharp. Alone.”

Dorian weighed the note card in his hands. Sounded like the Major alright, wording an invitation like an order to one of his subordinates. The handwriting on the note and the envelope looked genuine.

He allowed himself to dream a little. Despite its preciseness, the note left room for a few speculations. The Major wanted to see him at Schloss Eberbach tomorrow evening at 10 p. m. That much was clear. Alone. Did “alone” mean in this case he was to come alone? Most probably. But one could always hope for another meaning. Perhaps the Major rather wanted to tell him he was alone and needed company?

Dorian smiled at himself. Dream on, sweet dreamer – a trap? No, he dismissed this idea as well. NATO would try to get rid of him in other ways, should they so desire. And if the Major wanted to kill him, he would have had several better chances in seven years than to invite him to Schloss Eberbach. Besides, the note said nothing about not telling anyone where he was going. He was positive that was no oversight on the Major’s part, as much as it was deliberate that there was no statement about coming unarmed.

Dorian called for James, asking him to contact a travel agency to book a flight to Frankfurt, Germany, for him, and arrange for a rental car at the airport, both for tomorrow morning.

James’s misgivings were palpable.

“You’re going to Germany?”

//Here we go.// Dorian braced himself for the worst, taking a deep breath.

“Obviously yes, Jamesie, when I ask you to provide for a flight to Frankfurt. The Major asks me to visit.”

James’s eyes became wide with fear. 

“Don’t go! Promise me you won’t go! It’s a trap! He’ll kill you!”

//And we’re off,// Dorian thought.

James’s screaming brought Bonham, Beck, and John-Paul to the room, and of course they all looked at the note and gave their opinion.

“Maybe he finally sees resistance is futile,” John-Paul, ever the romantic, stated. 

“It’s a trap!” James wailed.

“He wants his belt back,” Beck commented.

Dorian smiled. His fingers lightly stroked the belt he was wearing. 

“He would have said so if this was what he wanted, Beck, dear.”

“And you would have said ‘Come and get it!’” Beck stated drily.

“Don’t go, Milord!” James threw himself onto the carpet. Beck stared at him, one eyebrow lifted. John-Paul rolled his eyes. Bonham sighed. They all knew James’s temper tantrums. 

Dorian remained unperturbed. James hadn’t noticed the bills yet, so he took them and knelt beside his accountant. 

“I promise I’ll be careful, Jamesie,” he said. Somehow, James worrying about him and his jealousy of the Major were moving. If only he wouldn’t throw a temper tantrum every time the words “Germany” or “Major” were uttered. 

“I’ll be back in no time, you’ll see. If it is of any comfort to you, ask the travel agency for a hotel room for one night at the best hotel in Eberbach, too, there’s a good boy. I doubt I’ll need it, but then, one never knows.”

James huffed, still lying on the carpet facedown, his head cradled in his arms.

“Oh, and there is the small matter of these bills, dear. I would appreciate it very much if you took care of them during my absence.”

James sat up and took one look at the bills. 

“Seven thousand pounds?! And not a heist in a whole two months! You want to put us all out into the street with not a penny left! – Alright, Mr V paid two million for the small Rembrandt sketch, but – oh well, you will get yourself killed by the horrible Major anyway, and we can all starve! It’s all the same to you!” He stormed out of the room and slammed the door. A bit of plaster rained down on the floor.

John-Paul rolled his eyes again.

“At least he has taken the bills with him,” Dorian said, shrugging his shoulders. 

Bonham shook his head, Beck snorted disdainfully. They all knew that James had lived as a street urchin in Edinburgh during his childhood, until he had the good fortune to steal from the posh young nobleman who recognized not only James’s abilities as a pickpocket but also his talent with figures, enabling him to attend schools and to get a proper training as an accountant. No one in Eroica’s services would ever need to starve, but the harsh years with stealing scraps, digging in dustbins and selling his body for a few pounds had instilled in James a terrible fear of landing in the gutter again, a fear he could hardly ever overcome. 

Bonham, who had been quiet while the others had talked all at once, finally spoke up. 

“Oi’d say it won’t do any ‘arm if you didn’t go unarmed, M’lord. Oi ‘aven’t the foggiest what the Maijor moight be up to, but better saife’n sorry.”

“A good advice, Bonham, which I will certainly heed. But now I have to decide which clothes to take along. I want to be dressed right for the occasion, whatever it may be.”

Dorian spent a good deal of the day solving this puzzle. The Major’s invitation could mean a romantic candlelight dinner (not very likely, but one could always keep one’s hopes up) as well as a five-hour nightly walk through a forest with a thirty-kilogram backpack (maybe this was more likely with the Major). Finally Dorian decided on a light suit and matching shoes, gray and of an unobtrusive elegance, and another ensemble of the same making in a modest blue for the next day. Both suits were comfy to wear and had room for a few knives. As of yet, the hidden pockets were empty. Not to attract undue attention at the airport, he would visit one of his trusted colleagues in Germany, who conveniently lived in Frankfurt, to take care of the matter of weapons. 

He pondered for a while whether he should let the Major know he would accept the invitation, but then decided against it. If the Major sent a cryptic message, well, two could play that game. A little bit of suspense would be good for the man after all. 

Dorian smiled when he went to bed.

The next day, he got up early and took the first plane to Frankfurt in the morning. A short breakfast at the airport, then he collected his rental car – a Mercedes – and drove into town. He half expected someone following him, but then he strongly suspected that their encounter was strictly private on the Major’s side – inviting the Fop to his home – what would this do to the reputation of Iron Klaus, should it become known?

Well, first things first. In a side street off Zeil he entered a shop for hunting and fishing equipment. The owner, Herr Buesam, motioned him into a room behind the shop and took Dorian’s equipment out of a small safe in the wall: Two very well-balanced throwing knives, custom-made for him at Solingen, and a small one to fasten at the ankle.

“Thank you, Mr Buesam,” Dorian said, hiding the bigger ones in his sleeves and strapping the small spare one to his ankle. 

“Always an honour,” the old gentleman said. “Bring them back anytime – or let me know if you’ll have to take them along.”

“I hope I won’t need them,” Dorian answered with a smile.

“That would be even better,” Mr Buesam agreed. “But one never knows.”

“Indeed, Mr Buesam, indeed. Auf Wiedersehen!”

“Auf Wiedersehen.” The old gentleman bowed and led him to the door.

The important matter of arming himself settled, Dorian had a snack for lunch and went to Städel Museum, ambling through the rooms filled with beautiful paintings. The security was state of the art, but so were he and his men, he thought with a smile. He would pay a nightly visit another day, especially to the Vermeer section, that much was certain. Oh well, but he had other plans today.

Looking at his watch, he found it was time to leave Frankfurt for Heidelberg and then over to Eberbach. Being accustomed to driving on the “wrong” side of the road on the Continent, he adapted to the flow of the rush-hour traffic, and it amused and satisfied him to see that the thing he had overheard Agent B saying at one time, about the “built-in right-of-way” for Mercedes cars, seemed to be true: He didn’t even have to drive aggressively; most drivers let him pass, going over to the right-hand lane on the motorway.

When he arrived in Eberbach, he checked in at the Hotel Krone Post and had a light supper at a nearby restaurant. It was five minutes to ten and the sun was long gone when he left the small town of Eberbach behind and drove up the way to the Schloss. The tall structure loomed forbearingly in the falling darkness. When he drew nearer, Dorian saw that one window was lit. His thief memory and sense of orientation told him that this must be the library. On his two visits to the Schloss, one official, one unofficial, he had never been in this room, but he knew where the library was.

At ten p. m. sharp, he pressed the button at the gate. Then he listened for a word from the intercom, but there was no sound, only the humming of the motor opening the gate. The unobtrusive small surveillance camera followed his way through the gate which closed behind the car with a click. 

Slowly, Dorian drove up the path to the Schloss and parked to the left side of the main entrance, right behind the Major’s Mercedes. The entrance lights had been lit, but the front door was still closed.

Dorian rang the bell, half expecting the old butler, Herr Hinkel, but it was the Major himself who opened the door.

“Here I am”, Dorian said. “You asked me to come, and here I am.”

“You’re on time,” the Major observed, stepping aside to let his guest in. 

“Come.” He led the way to a room from which light fell into the hall. It was the library indeed. Dorian looked around. So no romantic candlelight dinner, but this had been very unlikely anyway. 

The Major was dressed casually, in jeans and a green sweater enhancing the colour of his eyes. Dorian found he looked irresistible, but his face was serious, almost grim. Not grim as in angry, but completely focussed, as Dorian had seen him during a difficult mission. He could be mistaken, but there also seemed to be a hint of sadness in the Major’s sharp eyes.

“Why, it’s good to see you again, Major,” Dorian began. “May I ask - ?”

“Sit down,” the Major interrupted him, pointing to an overstuffed armchair.  
He seemed calm, but it was the calm concentration of a beast of prey preparing to attack. 

A slight feeling of unease began to creep up Dorian’s spine when he sat down in the chair. The knives felt good in his sleeves. One movement, and they would be in his hands. This was comforting.

The Major didn’t seem to carry any weapon, but his movements were panther-like when he went to the table, took up a large book and threw it into Dorian’s lap.

//What on earth is he up to?//

“A Bible? I take it that’s the Eberbach Family Bible –“

“It is,” the Major interrupted him again. “Look in the back!”

Obediently, Dorian turned to the back of the Bible and found an old document there. He took a closer look. The paper was yellow and brittle, the handwriting was not that of a learned man. Besides, it seemed as if the document had been written down in great haste and the quill had needed sharpening. The scripture looked genuine and seemed at least several hundred years old. 

Dorian looked up at the Major, a question in his eyes.

“I’m not an expert on old documents, Major. Besides, my German may be good enough for everyday business, but this is old German, and the handwriting is almost illegible.”

“I know,” the Major answered brusquely. “This is why my grandfather asked a family member who worked with old scriptures and documents all his life to translate it into modern German.”

“It’s all in the family, then,” Dorian quipped, to lighten the mood. He felt more than a bit of tension meanwhile.

“It has stayed in the family,” the Major grimly agreed, ignoring Dorian’s attempt at a joke. “Until now.”

“So I should feel honoured, then,” Dorian answered with a slight laugh which sounded hollow to him. Actually, he didn’t feel honoured. Instead, his unease grew by the minute, because he didn’t have the slightest idea what this was all about.

“With your obnoxious persistence in following me around the world, making passes at me, you have earned yourself the right to know about a dark family secret of the Eberbachs,” the Major answered gravely. “I wouldn’t consider this an honour, however. More a fair warning.”

Dorian smiled uneasily. If his opposite hadn’t been Major Klaus von dem Eberbach, he would have thought of what he heard as an absurd joke. But the Major had never been a man for joking.

Another piece of paper was shoved into Dorian’s hand.

“Read.”

This paper was covered on both sides in lines written with an old typewriter with uneven letters. It was written in current German, though, so Dorian began to read.

“I, Konrad von dem Eberbach, hereby testify before our Lord and Jesus Christ, our Saviour, that what I shall write down here is nothing but the truth. My witnesses are Lorenz Weidenmeyer, priest of the Parish of Eberbach, a pious and truthful man, as is Wolfgang von Hardenberg, my friend since boyhood. The have sworn to take the secret to their graves.

I leave this document to Walther von dem Eberbach, my eldest son and heir, as a fair warning to him and the ones that will come after him to lead a god-fearing life so the Devil and his demons will spare their offspring from the terrible madness that befell my younger son, Friedhelm.

God is my witness that I and Hildegard, my faithful and loyal wife, may she rest in God’s hands, raised our two sons to become god-fearing, brave men, good Masters and strong soldiers. Walther became a fine young man, but Friedhelm always set himself apart.”

Dorian stopped reading. He had a feeling where things might lead.

“Alright, maybe having a son who loved men was a curse to your ancestor, but what does this have to do with you? Times have changed after all – “ He stopped when the Major jumped up abruptly from the other armchair, and in one fluid movement bent down, shoving his face close to Dorian’s.

“It’s not all about you god-damned fudge-packers! Do you think I would have called you to my house to tell you that one of my uncles centuries ago was gay?! – It’s far more serious! Read on, you damned idiot!”

Dorian was shocked by the Major’s outbreak, so shocked he let the insulting swearwords go and did as he was told.

“Where Walther was wild and daring but honest, Friedhelm’s most prominent trait from early childhood was cruelty. He threw stones at horses and cattle, put thorns under his brother’s saddle so Walther’s horse would rear and throw him off. What was more, he lied to my face when questioned about the incident. He was always evasive, keeping to himself, leaving the castle for long roams through the forest. Honestly spoken, I was glad to see as little of my second-born as possible. Did he notice that I – for shame! – disliked and despised him, my own flesh and blood?

Walther was sixteen years of age and Friedhelm had just finished his thirteenth year, when a rumour came to my ears about a devil in the forest. At first I dismissed it as an old wives’ tale, but one day Lorenz Weidenmeyer came to the castle and asked to speak to me about an urgent matter. He was in the company of one of the woodsmen. His name was Gottfried. Hesitatingly, Gottfried told me what he had seen in a gorge in a remote part of the forest: Small animals skinned and impaled on branches, plucked birds, the cadavers of cats and dogs from the village, also skinned, their eyes gouged out, their bellies split up, intestines hanging out. And the worst thing, Gottfried said, was that one of the poor creatures was still twitching when – as Gottfried swore on his life – it was my second son impaling it on a branch.

“God help me, he was smeared with blood all over, but I know his flaxen hair!” the woodsman said.

Had the priest not interfered, I would have struck Gottfried down. God forgive me for not seeing how serious the matter already was then. I refused to believe at first that the man actually had seen my second son; he must have been mistaken; but I would learn better soon. 

One night a servant came to me with some clothes I recognized as belonging to Friedhelm. There were traces of fresh blood on them, and we had not been out hunting for several days, which would have explained the blood.  
When I asked him about his soiled clothes, Friedhelm admitted he had killed small animals, and when asked for the reason, he said he had enjoyed doing so. He spoke boldly, as if he did not understand my anger. Even then, I thought a severe beating and a week locked in his room with only water and bread as food, as well as the strict order not to leave the castle without my permission would cure and save my son.

Two years later, our King needed my and my sons’ services for War. God was merciful; we all returned safely and with all our limbs from the battlefield. Both my sons had fought bravely, and I was proud of them when we returned home. I thought seeing the carnage of the battlefields and having to fight for your dear life every day had cured my second son from his cruel streak, had mitigated his urge to kill, but how wrong I was!”

Again, Dorian looked up from the document, but the Major motioned him to read on with a move of his head. 

A terrible suspicion formed in Dorian’s mind.

//An urge to kill … no, not the Major, no …// He shook his head.

“Weiter!” 

Dorian managed to shove the horrible thought as far away as he could and continued reading.

“Children began to vanish from the surrounding villages. Two were found dead and mutilated, and God forgive me for thinking at first they had fallen prey to a bear or a wolf. Another three were never found again, neither alive nor dead. People began to talk about the Demon again, but this time they demanded from me as their Lord and Master to protect them. Still I did not want to believe that my youngest son should be responsible for the vanished and maimed children. However, suspicion tormented me day and night. I call myself a god-fearing man, my wife was the best wife I could wish for, true and loyal, a good mother to her sons. My eldest son had turned out well, so I thought God would not punish us with our second son. Nevertheless, the matter was serious. I had to be absolutely sure. So I prayed for guidance, wisdom and courage, and gave order to my servants to have an eye on Friedhelm day and night, but never to let him know he was watched. I told myself that I had given this order to find proof that my son had nothing to do with the dead children, and that my misgivings were wrong.

Months passed in which no further children vanished or came to harm, and I thought I was right, my suspicions against my son were unfounded. God would not test us so harshly. Besides, Walther had killed a bear while hunting, and for a while I thought that this beast from the forest must have killed the children.

One evening, however, a peasant couple came to the Schloss. The woman fell to my feet in tears and implored me to send some men to help them find Katrin, their young daughter, who had been missing all afternoon. I had the worst foreboding, alerted some of my huntsmen and led them together with a party of peasants into the forest.

Deep in the woods, I separated from the search party. It had occurred to me to seek out the remote gorge where Gottfried had found the slaughtered animals and had seen Friedhelm at the foot of the gorge. 

God’s ways are often mysterious to us poor, wretched sinners, but it was HE who led me to the gorge to see the truth with my own eyes, so I could no longer deceive myself: Deep down, I saw a fire burning, and a dark, hooded shape moving around the fire, holding up in the air a writhing bundle. As if on the hunt, I went down into the gorge quietly. A shudder seized me when I heard a faint, muffled scream. The shape threw the bundle to the ground next to the fire and drew a knife. In horror, I grabbed my crossbow and shouted for the shape to drop the knife and to remove his hood. Caught by surprise, the man tried to flee, but my arrow caught him in the leg and he dropped the knife. During his attempt to run away, the hood had fallen down to the man’s shoulders. I dragged him back to the fire, and the flames lit up Friedhelm’s flaxen hair and pale face.

“Father,” he said. And God is my witness, I took up a stone and smashed it down into his face. Again and again. I killed my own flesh and blood like a mad dog which has to be put down. With my hunting knife, I cut through the ropes that bound the little peasant girl. She was unconscious, but unharmed. Then all my strength left me, and I fell down on my knees, howling like a wounded animal. This was how the priest and Wolfgang found me. 

My wife died half a year later. Having given birth to, nourished and loved a murderous monster had broken her spirits. But the worst for her had been that her husband whom she loved and respected had killed their own flesh and blood. I had not lied to her – should I have spared her? Should I have told her Friedhelm had fallen to his death by accident? - She never spoke to me again after that night, never forgave me that I had killed my own son. 

God punishes me hard, but I do not complain. My two friends guessed what had happened in the gorge. No one accused me, but for the rest of my days I will ask myself whether I could have saved Friedhelm, saved him from himself. Would an exorcism have helped? Should I have locked him up forever after the woodsman had found the slaughtered animals in the forest? It would have saved lives, for there was no doubt that Friedhelm also had murdered the other children. Maybe locking him up would have been the right thing to do. I should have faced up to the shame and the disgrace of my son being a common murderer. Instead, I preferred to turn a blind eye. Yes, God took one of my children and my wife away, but through my blindness, five more families mourn a son or a daughter who never will come back. May HE forgive me!

But what did my wife and I do to deserve a monster for a son, what did Walther do to deserve such a brother? God is my judge. My days are almost numbered. I do not fear the fires of hell, for I did wrong when I could have done right. I failed my wife and both of my sons. 

My only fear is that my son’s demon may try to find another vessel in the Eberbach family. Hence my warning to you, Walther, my son and heir: Observe your offspring. Raise them in strict discipline as god-fearing Masters and Lords and brave warriors, so you may be spared by God the Lord and his son Jesus Christ from the fate that befell me.

Given the 13th day of December, 1552  
Konrad von dem Eberbach, Lord and Master of Eberbach  
Hochwürden Lorenz Weidenmeyer, Parish of Eberbach  
Wolfgang von Hardenberg“

Dorian had finished reading and looked at the Major who had sat down again in the opposite armchair. With the chairs so closely together, the library only lit by the two reading lamps next to them, it could have been a cosy, comforting scene, but Dorian felt everything but comfortable. 

His lips were slightly numb and his mouth dry when he asked: “I still do not understand, Major. What does this story have to do with you?”

//I do not want to understand … I want to turn a blind eye as Konrad von dem Eberbach did.//

“Oh come on!” The Major lit a cigarette. “Do not pretend to be this stupid! Isn’t it obvious? Why would I have wasted yours and my time by having you read a dark part of the Eberbach family history, if Friedhelm von dem Eberbach and I hadn’t a lot in common?”

Dorian shook his head wildly.

“But Major, you are no monster!”

The Major laughed harshly.

“What makes you so sure? True, you will never see me torture and kill small children or animals, but simply because my father and his friends heeded our ancestor’s warning.”

Dorian heard himself give a shocked laugh.

//No, no, no …//

“No, Major, I don’t believe this, no!”

The Major got up and bent over Dorian in the chair, putting his hands on both armrests, trapping his guest, as if he were interrogating an enemy agent.

//I don’t want to use the knives, but if I have to …//

“Why do people kill?” he barked at Dorian.

Uneasily, Eroica shifted in his seat. He pulled back his arms a little. His fingers closed on the knife handles.

//A nightmare – this is all a nightmare …//

“Major – Klaus –“

“Answer me! Why do people kill?”

“Self-defence, jealousy, greed –“ Dorian rattled off.

//Play along with him …//

“Right. And all these reasons do have what in common?”

“I don’t understand …” Dorian shook his head.

“Killing in these cases is just a means to an end: To remove a person threatening you, to get a rival out of the way, to take someone else’s money or property.” Most normal people do not enjoy killing. Their reason is something else they want. But I do. As my ancestor Friedhelm did. And we’re not the only ones in the family.”

“No, no, no, no!” Dorian shook his head again, when the Major threw a file on the table and flung it open.

“1708. Christian Heinrich von dem Eberbach. Killed in a ‘hunting accident’ after several young girls from the village had vanished. Most probably the ‘accident’ was arranged by his father. After his dead, there were no more vanished girls. – 1802 . Johann Friedrich von dem Eberbach was committed to an institution for the insane. He killed his younger sister Antonie and took out her heart to keep it in a glass jar. – 1928. Friederike Wilhelmine von dem Eberbach. Attacked her husband, gouged his eyes out. When commited to an asylum, she did the same to a doctor. I remember visiting Aunt Frieda well when I was a boy. She was always kept behind bars, and I was never to go too close to the bars. She died in the closed ward in 1963. – So my father was forewarned.”

The Major delivered these horrible facts about members of his family in a tone no different from how Dorian had heard him explaining the details of a mission to his subordinate agents – in a clipped, matter-of-fact way.

His thoughts racing, Dorian tried to breathe calmly and evenly.

//He will not attack you – no, he will not -//

“But –“

“I have been told normal people feel pity and empathy for their fellowmen and remorse when they do something bad. Even people who kill others. I do not,” the Major stated.

“But –“ Dorian repeated. He tried to focus on the man before him, so close – threatening, but not alluring. This was no game.

//If he makes one wrong move, I’ll stab him – have to be very fast – “

“You ask why I don’t kill civilians or animals at random? I told you, my father saw the signs, and together with two friends - one serving as his butler, the other a former assassin, now a nun - instilled strict rules into me from an early age. This code of ethics as well as rigid training and exercise and a good education help to curb the monster in me. I have grown up to defend and honour my home country. Killing harmless civilians doesn’t go well with this. So I have been trained to harm and kill only the worst: Warlords, drug kings, fanatical preachers of hatred. Listen up, as I will say this only once: I have been trained to protect civilians and the men working for me. Nevertheless, I am nothing but a well-educated killing machine. There is no room for emotion in my life. I do not know what love is and I will never be able to learn what it means.”

Dorian swallowed as the Major withdrew from him and sat down again.

“I do not miss remorse, empathy, love. How could I miss what I have never experienced? But I have no time for your shenanigans any longer, Lord Gloria. Once and for all: With your advances, you are wasting your and my time. And I have been patient enough.”

Dorian looked up into the Major’s face. Never before had he heard him say so much at a time. But now the Major had spoken – and had revealed a nearly unbelievable truth. 

//Could it all be a lie, a cruel lie to get rid of me, to frighten me away?// Dorian dismissed the thought as fast as it had crossed his brain. Trying to comprehend what he had just heard, he looked at the man in the opposite armchair, who sat there, calmly smoking his cigarette.

Did he see a hint of sadness or regret in the green eyes, or was he just mistaken?

“Put your knives away. I will not hurt you. Go, Lord Gloria. You are a nuisance and a thief, but not a bad person. Try to tell my secret to the world – no one will believe you, although it’s true. Or keep it to yourself. It’s all the same to me. Best forget me. I will forget you as soon as you’re out the front door, so don’t worry that I might come after you. But pester me again, and I might change my mind. – Go now.”

Without a word, Dorian got up from the armchair and stumbled more that walked to the door. He rallied, held himself upright when he went out into the hall.

The Major saw the man leave wordlessly, his head held high. He heard the front door close, a car start, leave with gravel spraying, a short stop at the entrance gate, then the motor accelerating again, its sound losing itself in the distance. He went to the window and looked out into the darkness.

“You have broken his heart, Master Klaus.” A voice came from the library door.

“And what does this mean, Herr Hinkel? - Does he feel pain in his chest, as if someone had cut his heart out?” the Major asked, without turning his gaze from the window.

“Exactly, Sir.”

The Major turned to face the old butler. 

“How strange. I feel the same.”

Herr Hinkel took a sharp breath, but remained silent. 

“Nevertheless - it was necessary,” the Major said curtly. “He will get over it.”

“It was necessary, Sir,” the old butler agreed. “So let’s hope for the best.”

 

Dorian’s head was reeling. 

//He was serious. It’s not been a lie to frighten me off … I feared for my life … Hardly have been so afraid, and yet –//

He did not know how he made it through the darkness to his hotel, how he spent the night. The next morning he drove to Frankfurt, still in a haze, left the knives with Herr Buesam, who wisely did not ask any questions. Then he drove on to the airport to get on the next plane to Heathrow. 

A melody played in his head, and after a while he recognized it: It was from “West Side Story”, a sad and angry song: 

“… A man who kills cannot love,  
A man who kills has no heart!  
And the man who kills got your love and your heart!  
Very smart, …, very smart!”

For the moment, he was at a complete loss what to do, how to react, how to go on.  
But when his plane landed at Heathrow Airport and he stepped off, he smiled, although feebly.

Didn’t he always get what he wanted?

THE END


End file.
